When Donnabelle met Frerin
by River Eagle
Summary: A series of one-shots based on Donnabelle "Bilbo" Baggins growing up as a slave with Frerin. Companion piece to "Donnabelle" where she is an adult in that one and is on the journey with Thorin and co. These one-shots are in no particular order. Young female Bilbo. You may not need to read "Donnabelle" to appreciate these.
1. When Donnabelle met Frerin

Donnabelle 'Bilbo' Baggins was scared. She didn't recognise anything of her surroundings. Her bright blue eyes looked around the unfamiliar _(giant!)_ furniture of her 'new' home. The wood flooring was foreign to her: she was used to carpets and tiles in her 'real' home; the home that she shared with her mama and papa. The tiny child whimpered slightly as she was dumped in the living area by her new 'master' and was left alone with the instructions not to touch anything. What was she to do next?

Her life had been a series of instructions and orders since first she was snatched after her grandfather's party months earlier. How she'd loved the thought of staying up late at that party! But that seemed a lifetime ago. She barely remembered the wooden sword she'd been playing with as she ran up to the man with the long grey robes.

"Hello little one," a voice broke through her confused state and the tiny faunting did the only thing she remembered to do from the Shire when a stranger talked to her: she hid between a settee and the wall.

"It's okay, little one." Donnabelle shook her head though the man on the other side of the settee couldn't see. It wasn't all right. She wanted her mama and papa. She didn't know this strange place with all the strange smells. Things were musty and it didn't smell of daisies or open meadows. It didn't smell like freshly cut grass. It was wet, damp and oh so unfamiliar. It smelled of rust, dust, and mould.

"I know you're scared, little gem." The little faunting focused on the voice and she frowned slightly. That voice didn't sound like the other angry voices she'd heard on the dusty road. It didn't sound like the loud marketplace where people stamped and trod and yelled and screamed. "I'm not going to hurt you." That voice; it kind of reminded her of her granddaddy. It was deeper, but it still held the same softness her granddaddy had whenever he spoke to her. Her brow wrinkled and she peeked out from behind the settee.

The only person she could see was a man that wasn't a man. He was shorter and wider than the bad men who'd taken her from her Shire, but taller than her papa and granddaddy. And he wore clothes she'd never seen before. His muddy blond hair brushed past his shoulders and was half pulled back to keep the front out of his eyes. His blue eyes were filled with kindness and a hint of sadness too. Donnabelle giggled slightly as she took in his nose – it was even bigger than her granddaddy's one! The man smiled softly and the hobbit decided he had a nice smile. It reminded her of her mama.

"That's it little gem," the man that wasn't a man said softly, in his deep voice that was kind of like thunder. "It's only us here."

Donnabelle shyly made her way into the room and her eyes darted around. She was sure that the man wouldn't blame her if she didn't take him at his word. After all, she'd made the mistake once before and _that_ was something she didn't want to do again. She took another step toward the man that wasn't a man (she wasn't exactly sure what he was, other than he wasn't a hobbit).

"Who're you?" she asked.

The man was kneeling down at her level. "I'm Frérin, son of Thráin," he answered. "And what's your name, little one?"

"Donnabelle 'Bilbo' Baggins," the small child declared proudly. She'd only really learnt her name in the months leading up to her capture. Then her face fell and she ducked her head. She wasn't supposed to do that, she remembered. "Mama told not to say. Just tell 'em name's Bilbo."

Frérin's smile fell, but Donnabelle didn't know why. "Would it be alright if I just call you 'little one'?"

"It's what you been calling me," she said sadly. But she nodded anyway. Something about the name 'little one' made her feel safe. At least safe when he said it. Shyly, she looked up at him and then back down at her feet. "What're you?" she blurted.

He laughed slightly and tapped her on the nose. "I'm a dwarf, little halfling."

The five-year-old faunt scowled and stepped back from the dwarf. She folded her arms across her chest.

"Okay, mim'ibin, I won't call you that again," Frérin said.

Donnabelle nodded slightly, and bit her lower lip. She was trying so hard to be brave. That was something she remembered her papa had told her to be when she wasn't sure what to do. But could she trust this dwarf not to scold her if all she wanted to do was cry?

As if he could read her mind, Frérin's next words broke through the dam she'd built up around her tears. "Oh, mim'ibin, you don't have to be brave right now." She sniffed once and then felt him pull her into his arms. And with that, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried.

She couldn't explain it, but being in the stranger's arms felt like she was coming home. He wasn't her granddaddy or even her papa, but he reminded her so much of them that maybe he was the next best thing. He even smelt like the same pipe weed.

…

Or it could have just been her imagination… but she didn't mind that so much.

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ _mim'ibin is Khuzdul for 'little gem' (by way of Dwarrow Scholar)_

 _A faunt or faunting is a hobbit child._


	2. Eleven Orange Roses

Donnabelle "Bilbo" Baggins ducked her head as Frérin, son of Thráin, rounded on her. She knew she was in trouble as soon as she'd accidently (perhaps purposefully) made the mistake of ordering eleven orange roses for their master instead of twelve red and yellow roses. The recipient of said roses was not offended at the difference. In fact, from what the quiet servant had witnessed, the woman appreciated them much more than the other roses by the reception the master got; Donnabelle had to wonder _how_ the two of them were able to _breathe_ when they were busy attacking the other's face. The woman's reaction, and the nature of what happened after, was the only saving grace the hobbit lass had from their master.

But it didn't save her from the wrath of her brother when he learnt of what she had done.

 **~What do you think you were doing?~** he demanded in Khuzdul. The young hobbit shifted on her feet and couldn't bring herself to look up at the dwarf. Frérin shifted to speak in Westron, "Mim'ibin, you do realise what you did could have had you killed?"

She sniffed and rubbed her nose with her shirt sleeve. Still, she didn't look up at Frérin. But she nodded slightly. Yes, she had realised after she placed the order that she would be punished by the master, or killed. But at the time, Donnabelle thought she was doing the master a favour after overhearing a discussion he'd had with his mother. She was a hobbit, and understood the nature of flowers and their different meanings. So she'd taken the chance of ordering eleven orange roses that signified four things: the number signified that the recipient was truly, deeply loved by the giver, and the colour meant the giver had enthusiasm, desire and fascination toward the recipient. But if she'd stuck with the red and yellow roses, it wouldn't have meant as much: all they signified was that the giver had jovial, happy feelings toward the recipient. Not exactly the most romantic notion in the world.

"Look at me," Frérin said. He waited until the faunt looked up. She did, and found the blond dwarf softly smiling at her. **~You were extremely lucky it did not backfire on you this time, little sister. Next time, you won't be as fortunate.~**

Donnabelle wiped her nose again. **~I'm sorry, brother.~**

"What am I going to do with you, you little rascal?" He bent down and beckoned her into his arms. She gave him a relieved smile and rushed into his open arms. "I should still be mad at you, but you did manage to make the master happy."

"I'm a hobbit. I know flowers. And I'm a girl. I know what a girl likes. It also helped that I heard the master talking to the mistress the day he sent me for the flowers. I thought I'd get the flowers that reflected what he truly wanted to say so we didn't have to watch him mope."

"You're hopeless, aren't you?" Frérin said with a chuckle. Lifting the faunting into his arms, he carried her into their shared quarters. It wasn't much, but the both of them were happy. Or as happy as they could be.

 **~I learnt from the best,~** she shot back.

 **~Cheeky!~** he returned and dropped her on her small cot. _~What do you want to hear tonight?~_ he asked in Iglishmek, the dwarven sign language. Frérin always used the evenings he had with Donnabelle to teach her her lessons. That included teaching her the two ways of communicating with dwarves. At eleven, she had learnt a lot of both languages, as well as Westron.

She bit her lip and then let her eyes widened. _~Tell me about Thorin and Dís!~_

Frérin felt a tug at his heart at the mention of his dwarven siblings. Donnabelle never got tired of asking about his dwarven family, or of the home he had not seen in over a century. _~Would you like a story from Erebor, or from the Blue Mountains?~_

 _~Erebor?~_ she asked hesitantly.

"I don't really remember much from the days of Erebor," the dwarf began softly. "I was nineteen when the dragon came. But I wish I could describe the halls of emerald stone to you, mim'ibin. They were simply glorious! Grandfather ruled over the kingdom with strength. Oh, my favourite room in the lower halls was his treasure chamber. Stacks upon stacks of gold coins and chests of precious gems…"

"Did he let you play in there?"

"Most certainly not! The only real memory I have of that place was right before the dragon came. I watched the gold take hold of Grandfather's mind. That was not something I long to remember. I wish I could remember a time before all that gold, and all those gems. You see, we dwarves are drawn to precious metals, Donnabelle, and it hit my grandfather the worst after we lost Grandmother to an assassin who tried to kill adad and Grandfather. She stepped in to protect both of them when I was eight. I don't remember her. Just that she died to save my father and grandfather. I think that's what drove my grandfather to delve deeper into the mountain." The dwarf stopped, not even realising that he'd begun shedding tears over the loss of his grandparents.

"And then the dragon came."

He nodded, "And we were forced out of our homeland. I wish I could show it to you."

She crawled over her cot and into his lap. "Maybe we could get there one day, nadad." Her voice was filled with such hope that he didn't have the heart to disbelieve her. __

 _ **AN:**_ _mim'ibin is Khuzdul for 'little gem' (by way of Dwarrow Scholar)_

 _Nadad is Khuzdul for brother_

 _Adad is Khuzdul for father_

 **~Khuzdul~** _dwarrow spoken language_

_Iglishmek~ dwarrow sign language_

 _Faunt or Faunting is a hobbit child._


	3. Frerin's Slave Life

_**Frérin's Slave Life**_

 _(If I were to cast an actor to play Frérin, it would be Josh Holloway. He shares certain facial features similar to Richard Armitage and to Dean O'Gorman and Aiden Turner)_

 _Dedicated to Anime Princess, who asked how Frérin and Donnabelle first became slaves._

 **THTHTHTH**

Frérin, the second son of Thráin, of the line of Durin, woke cold and shivering. There was a steady swaying of whatever form of transport he was in. He blearily looked around the covering over him and thought that it was a wagon of some sort. Shifting slightly, Frérin panicked when he felt the cold steal of chains grip at his wrists and ankles. His hands were pulled up over his head and he noticed they were attached to one of the wagon walls. The last thing he remembered was being with Fundin on the shores of Kheled-zâram, battling against the orcs that had taken over Moria before he was knocked unconscious defending Fundin's body.

To go from the midst of battle to a covered wagon going to who knew where had Frérin apprehensive. "Thorin?" the young, 48-year-old dwarf called out. Perhaps the chains were there for his protection? He was known to be a particularly _bad_ patient when he was hurt. And if he was cold and shivering, then he must have been seriously wounded in the battle. But that wouldn't explain why his hands and arms were tied above his head. And _to the wagon._

He looked up from his prone position when a rapping on wood came from somewhere near the back of the wagon. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of a man that sat against the opening of the tarp. From what the dwarf could see against the backlight from outside the wagon, a scar ran down the man's left eye and cheek. Frérin looked back at his bound hands and started shifting them to test the metal. They were strong, but given enough time, the dwarf thought he could get out of them.

Frérin swallowed and stiffened when the man sharing the wagon with him got into his personal space and grabbed a hold of his braided beard. His blue-grey eyes darkened as his face was pulled close to the man's.

"Struggle and I'll cut it off." The voice that issued from the human's lips was rough and deep. If Frérin had to guess at the man's age, he would guess the boy was no more than five and twenty. The dwarf ground his teeth but stopped struggling against his bonds. "Good. You understand Westron, dwarf. Do you know what you are?" Frérin remained stubbornly silent as he glared at the man that held his beard. The man's lips twitched slightly at the defiance he saw in the dwarf's eyes. "You are a slave, dwarf. A slave of the Hounds of Esgaroth."

The dwarf felt his eyes widen at that. He started to pull at his wrist bonds again. These men that had captured him, that most likely had taken his unconscious body from Kheled-zâram, were from Esgaroth? For Frérin knew that the _child_ in the wagon with him would not have been old enough to remember Esgaroth or Dale. Even if the man were nine and twenty, he would not remember the Mountain in all of its glory.

Frérin had been nineteen when the dragon came, and his own memories of his childhood home were fading as much as he struggled to hold onto them.

And then, the dwarf stiffened as he felt the man pull at his beard again. He was not going to break under the shaving of his beard. He was _not_ going to break. The only sign of his distress was his eyes suddenly shutting down and becoming blank: and his arms straining to remain still. Then came the smirk of his tormentor as the young slaver held up the braid that Frérin had so proudly worn ever since he could first braid his facial hair. He did not let himself gaze upon the clasp that held the strands in place: the clasp that Thorin had given him just before the fall of Erebor.

"First this, dwarf. Then those lovely braids in your hair. We will break you. And you will be a slave forever."

But Frérin was already plotting his escape. He would _not_ be subjected to ridicule and torture for the remainder of his days.

 **THTHTHTH**

His first opportunity came three days after his first conscious thought in the back of the wagon. As the men were setting up camp on their way to the slave market, the dwarf slipped free of his chains and made quick work of the ones on his ankles. There wasn't a lot of cover for him to duck and hide behind, but he made for the closest outcropping of trees.

It did not help that he did not know where he was in Middle Earth. Yet, if he could find his way back to the Misty Mountains, then he could find his way from there. He could get back to Ered Luin and to his family.

But he did not get far before the men cornered him and had him wiped. And the youngest of the ten men kept his word and stripped Frérin of his other braids. In fact, the men took great pleasure in shaving Frérin of his long hair and beard before they grinned at the shamed dwarf. They burnt his hair in their campfire that night and threw his beads aside.

Frérin trembled as he watched his hair burn. It would take him _years_ to grow his hair back to the length it had been. There was no way he would be able to show his face around Ered Luin again until it grew back. His beard he could live with: Thorin had shaved his beard short not long after they had lost Erebor to the dragon. But his _hair_. It was unseemly for any dwarrow to have short hair past their first childhood years. Even in morning. The only time a grown dwarf would have a shaved head was when their clan had publicly shamed them for a major grievance against the whole tribe. And then that dwarf would be banished.

He would _not_ break. He was one of Durin's folk: the second-born prince of Erebor. And yet, he could do _nothing_ as he was beaten, belittled and shamed by slavers that hailed from Dale and Esgaroth.

 **THTHTHTH**

Frérin attempted again to escape nearly a month after the slavers had captured him and got a little further in his second escape. Yet the slavers had been expecting it and beat him within an inch of his life.

And _that_ was when they finally broke him. The Hounds of Esgaroth told him that though the dwarrow had won the Battle of Azanulbizar, it had come at a heavy price. None of the Durin line survived, save Dís who had not ridden into war with her brothers, father and grandfather. And it was only when they shared with the dwarf that there had been another dwarf that they thought he would like to know the fate of. A dwarf that went by the name of Dinna.

When the men saw they had Frérin's attention, they proceeded to tell him how the dwarf had valiantly protected the unconscious form of her prince. And had failed to stop an arrow from piercing her heart. Nor did she have the strength to stop the men from gutting her open and leaving her to die a slow painful death while they carted him away.

Frérin felt his whole world shatter. In the nearly five weeks he had been with the slavers, he was fighting so he could get back to his brother, his _family_ , but most importantly, to Dinna. His One. He had not been aware _she_ had followed him into battle. Nor that she had given up her life so that he could live. Dinna, his precious Dinna, was gone. There was no future for him without her in it. He hadn't even had the chance to court her properly.

 **THTHTHTH**

He never fought against his captors again, and they toyed with him for a year before they tired of it. It was not much fun for them without someone who fought back. So they sold him to his next owners at a slave market in the south, in the kingdom just south of Gondor.

 **THTHTHTH**

Frérin did not hear anything of his kin for nearly 100 years. He worked hard for his many different masters during that time, and most of them had been good to him. There had been no reason for him to leave the safety of their homes that they provided him with. In fact, he knew he had a better life as a slave with food, clothing and shelter being provided for him than the memories he had of the years between when the dwarrow of Erebor lost their home and the Battle of Azanulbizar.

Those twenty-eight years had not been fun. It had been very difficult to find enough food for everyone to survive the winters, and there had not been enough furs to go around keeping everyone warm. He remembered losing many good dwarrow during the coldest parts of the winter. And a fair number of dwarflings too. They had almost lost Dís during that first winter after Smaug came. He may not have met Dinna if it had not been for the fact the dwarrow _needed_ to conserve heat and her father had been one of Thráin's royal guards. So her family had joined their family circle.

As a slave, he had no pressures but to perform his tasks to the best of his ability. So it was with great trepidation that Frérin was introduced to the new slave dwarf his master had purchased to help with the forge. A dwarf who had been taken from the Blue Mountains under his brother's rule.

Frérin felt hope bloom in his chest at that. His brother, Thorin, had survived! And he heard of his nephews, born to him of Dís and a dwarf he barely remembered named Víli. The elder nephew, if Frérin was to believe Starur, looked like a younger version of him. After one hundred years, the dwarf began to remember what it was like to have something to fight for.

It would take him nearly seven years to work for enough money to buy his freedom from his master. And just as he was about to approach his latest master (the child of his former master), a new house slave was purchased. Frérin was asked to introduce the slave to its duties and was told that he would find it in the living area.

The dwarf did not think much of the request, as he had done the same thing many times over in the past. But when he stepped into the living area and looked around for the newest addition to the household, he had to squash the anger that burned within him. The new slave was only but a child! A small, scared, _lost_ halfling child by the look of her feet. And he knew there was no way in all of the Arda that he was going to leave when there was a _child_ he could stay and protect.

Whoever took the child from their home, Frérin swore, was going to pay.

 **THTHTHTH**

He later found out her name was Donnabelle, and she had been taken from outside her home in Hobbiton after her grandfather's party. She'd been a curious little thing and had just strayed too far from her parents' watchful gaze. By the time they realized she was gone, it had been too late for the hobbits to follow and rescue her. So he took it upon himself to see that she was freed and was returned safely to her family. No matter how long it took for him to see that promise through.


End file.
